I watched the walls. I watched the floor. I felt the floor beneath me. The room was cold. Cold enough to be honest. I understood then— if warmth was ever going to return, I would have to stay long enough to feel what the cold was doing to me. Because the place I live from has to feel first. Nights passed— awake, unable to hold a thought, watching the same shadow wait to change. Leaving was possible. There was a door. There was always a door. But I knew that warmth already. I had lived inside it. It was thin. Temporary. It collapsed when leaned on. So I stayed. I stayed with what was real, not with the part of me that wanted relief instead of ground. This room did not move. It did not pretend. Its floor held. Staying built something. From this place, movement changed. Rooms were not rushed. They were finished. Structure created capacity. Capacity allowed strength. Strength is what lets you leave without running. Another door appeared. I met it and told it everything— how cold it had been, how lonely, how standing required effort when old ground gave way. That was when I understood why I had stayed. Leaving was never about the door. It was about leaving from inside first. Even if the outside stayed the same. Even if the ground took time. Something in me had recalibrated— the way cold water teaches the body what warmth actually is. I turned back. I looked at the room. I walked through. Not into escape. Not into fantasy. Into myself. Unattached. Standing.
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